


A Winter's Tale

by FourCatProductions



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Bondage, F/F, Femdom, Human Furniture, Humiliation kink, Kinktober 2020, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, character study via porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26776654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/FourCatProductions
Summary: Astrid pays Maven a visit one cold winter's night.
Relationships: Astrid/Maven Black-Briar
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25
Collections: Kinktober 2020





	A Winter's Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Written for days 2, 3, 7, 17 and 24 of Kinktober.

Snow comes thick and fast at the end of Frostfall, smothering the countryside, and the howling rasp of the winter winds replaces the wolves at night. It’s not a season fit for much travel—thankfully, Astrid had arrived some time earlier, before the roads iced over and the sun went down. It may be frigid outside, with nothing but bone-white hills as far as the eye can see, but inside the lodge it’s warm as a summer evening, a fire crackling in the massive hearth. She stretches her legs out, crossing one ankle over the other, and picks up the goblet of wine from the end table beside the armchair. It’s a beast of a chair, cushioned and upholstered in red velvet, with a polished mahogany frame and a back so tall it’s impossible to see if there’s anyone in it when you first enter the room. Maven’s favorite armchair, if she’s not mistaken. Likely a custom order—Maven has faults aplenty, but her taste isn’t one of them. The sitting room is impeccably decorated, wooden floors gleaming with beeswax and an enormous bearskin rug spread in front of the hearth, garlands of holly festooning the sturdy walls. The chair is lovely, of course, but it’s only Astrid’s second-favorite piece of furniture.

“This weather is abysmal. I do hope the horses will be alright.” She takes a drink, makes an appreciative noise. “Ah well. At least we know no one’s coming or going until morning, hm?”

Maven doesn’t answer. Not that she could, with the gag in her mouth, but she gives no indication she’s even heard Astrid. It’s fascinating, the way she gives up control in degrees—no matter how much Astrid takes (how much she’s _encouraged_ to take), there’s always another layer to chip away, another measure of power to wrest from Maven’s grasp. Astrid could take it all away at once, but it’s much more interesting to see what Maven chooses to hold onto, even as she surrenders the rest. Tonight, it’s apparently her voice; she knows how it rankles Astrid to be ignored. Astrid refuses to be rankled. She uncrosses her ankles and crosses them again the other way, digging her heel into the small of Maven’s back. Maven’s bowed head doesn’t flinch, firelight shimmering in her dark hair.

“It’s fine if you don’t feel like answering, you know. I don’t expect intelligent conversation from a footstool.” There—the slightest tremor in Maven’s shoulders, an imperceptible tilt of her head. She’d caught herself at the last second. Astrid’s far from contented, but it makes her smile nonetheless. “After all, that’s not your purpose, is it? We agreed, this is what you’re best suited for.”

There’s no need for armor or leather tonight. Astrid had bathed herself thoroughly after her journey, and decided to forgo most of her layers for the silky black robe she’d found in Maven’s wardrobe. Maven’s dressed, but barely. The thin linen shift Astrid had stripped her down to is transparent in the wake of light and shadow, and in some ways is more revealing than if she’d been completely naked. A sturdy length of rope binds her, hitched from wrist to knee to ankle on both sides and cinched tight enough to keep her legs only a hand’s width apart. Hobbled like a stubborn show pony. She can move, of course, but they will be slow, ungainly movements, and Maven would rather chew broken glass than lose that last vestige of dignity. Astrid sips her wine.

There’s no real hurry, and so she takes her time finishing the goblet, basking in the fire and the way Maven occasionally shudders beneath her feet. Trying to hide the fact that she’s uncomfortable, perhaps, or work out a way to ease her discomfort without drawing Astrid’s attention. She’s not forbidden from doing so, of course. She’s free to adjust, to ask for what she wants, or even to end their little games, should she tire of them. No, for her the torment is that her weaknesses are seen at all, and Astrid delights in revealing them, like peeling skin from muscle with the curve of a blade—not as bloody, but no less satisfying for it. Maven needs it, she’s come to learn, though she’d never admit to it. Not just to have control wrested from her, but to be _seen_ , to be known and have that knowledge turned on her like a knife in the ribs. Astrid stabs her with it often. Sometimes she soothes the wound with kisses; others, she twists the blade. When she’s done with her wine, she contemplates pouring another, but she’s already pleasantly relaxed, and the urge starting to mount low in her belly outweighs her desire to needle Maven further. She sets the goblet down and swings her legs to the side, climbing out of the chair.

“You’re doing well enough,” she says conversationally, loosening the belt on her robe. Maven refuses to look up, so Astrid can’t see the expression on her face, but another faint tremor runs through her when the black silk pools around Astrid’s feet. “Let’s give you a little reward, hm?”

The bearskin rug is soft, lush beneath her shins as she kneels down in front of Maven, reaching around to unbuckle the gag. It’s one of her favorites, modeled after the bit on a bridle. The custom bridle Maven had made for her favorite horse, to be precise. Maven hates it, but she never comes harder than she does when she’s wearing it, Astrid fucking her from behind while she holds the leather straps like reins. But as pleasant a memory that is, it’s not the course she’s set for them this evening, and Maven works her jaw as soon as the gag is out, swallowing hard. Her cheeks are flushed, chin wet where she’d been unable to stop herself from drooling, and she’s never more beautiful than she is like this, defiance on her face and mortified lust in her eyes. Astrid strokes her hair, smoothing it away from her face. “Poor thing. Is that better?”

Maven glares, but keeps quiet. Her mouth is swollen from the gag, abraded red. _Lovely._

“You do want your reward, don’t you?” Astrid flashes her teeth, hand sliding down to cup Maven’s chin. Digs her fingers into Maven’s jaw and cheeks, forcing her lips into an exaggerated pout as the flesh contorts. “If not, we can always put the gag back in.”

For a moment she thinks Maven might actually refuse, but then she bites out, “Yes,” voice distorted. Faster than she usually gives in, Astrid notes. Either she’s desperate, or she’s trying to rush things along, hoping to end her current predicament, and the thought gives Astrid a little rush of anticipation as she leans in.

“Yes what?”

Maven doesn’t reply. Astrid reaches for the gag.

“Yes, Mistress.” Barely audible, laced with venom. “I want my reward.”

“See?” Astrid coos. “That wasn’t so hard.” When she lets go of Maven’s face, her fingerprints linger for a moment, stark pink. “I was thinking I’d let you assist me. I know how much you like that.” She lingers on the _assist,_ rolling it around on her tongue, and Maven’s gaze darts to the soft juncture of her thighs. Only for a second, but the flush that blooms in response is lovely. Even moreso is the look of puzzlement as Astrid turns around, arching her hips so her rear is positioned directly in Maven’s face. She glances over her shoulder to see Maven staring at her, brow wrinkled.

“Something wrong?”

A muscle in Maven’s jaw twitches. She wants to say something, but refrains. Worried even the slightest misstep will end her respite, Astrid supposes. Maven’s intelligence makes her one of Astrid’s more fascinating bed partners, but it can also be tiresome. Her brain is always working; trying to find the path of minimum risk and maximum reward, searching for ways to come out on top. One of these times, Astrid intends to punish her for thinking before answering—and won’t _that_ be fun, seeing what Maven does when she’s stripped of opportunities to calculate—but tonight, there’s no reason not to allow it. They’re alone, and the Black-Briar lodge has no neighbors, no live-in servants or staff to disturb them. Astrid has all the time in the world. She waits, and Maven licks her lips.

“I thought—”

“Oh, I know what you thought,” Astrid says, sweetly acidic. Maven’s flush deepens to an angry red. “But lowly little footstools don’t _need_ to think, and they certainly don’t get the privilege of licking my cunt. Now get to work.”

She’s never had Maven do this before, though it’s crossed her mind on more than one occasion. She’d decided to save it for the right time, an extra twist of the knife. She slips a hand between her legs, reaching back with the other to spread herself open without shame. Her shamelessness infuriates and arouses Maven in equal measure; she seems to consider her own desires a betrayal of some sort, or perhaps something else to master. And yet she fails, and fails again, and Astrid luxuriates in her frustrations like she would a fine vintage. Cruel, perhaps, or it would be if she hadn’t learned long ago that this is the one place Maven needs to be allowed to fail. She’ll never admit to that, either, but Astrid doesn’t mind. She’s always favored deed over word as proof. She wiggles her hips in a silent taunt, and a moment later Maven’s tongue finds her, licking reluctantly.

It starts out slow, soft licks that tease the skin while avoiding significant contact, and Astrid rubs her clit slow to match, circling it with two fingers. She doesn’t try to hide how good it feels, and Maven becomes bolder after a time, the tip of her tongue flickering across Astrid’s hole. Astrid rewards her with a pleased sigh, hand speeding up just a touch between her legs, and Maven gives in a little more, dragging her tongue in soft passes over sensitive flesh. She likes to be the best at whatever she does, even if the situation isn’t one of her own making, and Astrid knows just how to encourage that sort of single-minded focus. She keeps her movements unhurried—it’s starting to feel a little too good, working her fingers in time with Maven’s tongue, and she’s not ready to end things yet—and soon Maven’s face is buried against her, mouth lapping and sucking with precision as she does her best to wring the moans from Astrid’s throat.

“There’s a good girl,” Astrid purrs, because she’s not without mercy, and feels Maven falter before she redoubles her efforts. She’s found a good rhythm now, alternating broad licks with the flat of her tongue and delicate little whorls with the very tip, and the world narrows to little more than the relentless attentions of Maven’s mouth and her own fingers. She’s dripping wet now, a combination of Maven’s spit and her own slick, and obscene noises fill the silence, along with her own moans and Maven’s heavy breathing. She plays it up, fucks herself briefly on her fingers before dragging them across her clit—a reminder to Maven of where her mouth could have been, had Astrid deemed her worthy. The noise it draws from Maven’s throat is almost a growl, but she doesn’t stop. She’s far too proud for that. “There you go, just a little faster…”

The room is warmer than ever, fire casting strange shadows along the floor. The bearskin rug is soft where it presses into Astrid’s cheek. She’s close now, ripples of pleasure rolling down her spine and turning her thighs to liquid, hips rolling against Maven’s mouth, too good to keep her eyes open any longer. She comes with a shudder, spasming against her own fingers, and still Maven keeps on, licking her through her orgasm. She doesn’t stop until Astrid finally slithers out of her reach and collapses on the fur, chest heaving.

She floats for a while, limbs heavy, until her breathing evens and she can collect herself enough to sit up, raking her hair out of her eyes. The lower half of Maven’s face glistens, her eyes fever-bright; her nostrils flare as she sucks in a deep breath. Astrid smiles lazily, extends her hand. Her fingers are still wet.

“Go ahead,” she says. “Another reward, for a job well-done.”

Maven wields her tongue like a sword, sharp enough that Astrid thought it might cut her the first time they kissed. But she knows now how soft it can be, how hungry, curling around Astrid’s fingers as she sucks each one clean. Astrid lets her, rubbing the pads of her fingers over Maven’s tongue until they’re clean, and when she withdraws them Maven bites her lip, a reluctant sound bubbling up in her throat. Astrid scents blood on the water.

“What’s the matter?” She cocks her head, widens her eyes mockingly. “Something you wanted?”

“No, Mistress,” Maven rasps, too quick. “Nothing.”

“Hm.” Astrid rocks back on her haunches. “We’ll see about that.”

Maven’s entire body stiffens, chin rising, but she doesn’t move as Astrid circles her, sinking into a crouch. Her hips twitch as the nightgown is lifted, and Astrid stifles a chuckle, sliding a hand between her thighs. Maven is hot and slick, swollen to the touch, and her clit pulses when Astrid rubs it, but she holds still, even as her legs quiver from the effort.

“All this, just from licking my asshole? I’m flattered.” Maven flinches, but the crude words make her twitch against Astrid’s fingers. Astrid strokes the rounded curve of her hip, fingertips trailing over her flank, and slides one finger inside her. Maven’s hips jerk, and Astrid fucks her gently for a second before withdrawing. Something suspiciously close to a moan slips from Maven’s mouth, and she tenses up again, going silent. Astrid clucks her tongue and strokes her idly, fingers playing along the lips of her cunt. “Oh, don’t be like that. All you have to do is ask me to take care of it, and I will. You know the rule.”

It’s one of the few she institutes for their little games. Whatever Maven wants, Astrid will give—if she begs. She never once has. Astrid fantasizes on occasion about pushing Maven to the point that her desperation outweighs her pride, and what that might entail. For now, though, she simply enjoys watching the most powerful woman in Riften struggle with the burden of her own strength. This time, though, there’s a new kind of tension to the way Maven struggles to control her breathing, shoulders shaking, and Astrid watches her through half-lidded eyes, one hand curled possessively around her hip. She waits, and waits, and finally Maven exhales and lowers her head, silent. The moment passes. Astrid gives her clit a little tap before withdrawing her hand, watches her hips flinch again in response. She scoops up the gag as she circles back around, and Maven refuses to meet her eyes as she kneels before her on the rug once more.

“Darling, death is my area of expertise. Trust me when I say that asking for what you want won’t kill you.”

She knows perfectly well it’s not the asking, it’s the begging; not the expression of desire, but how deep it runs. She just can’t resist a final twist of the knife. Maven sneers, eyes fixed on the rug in front of her. She’s flushed, wrecked, glossy dark hair falling over her face and nightgown rucked up around her hips, and still she’s quiet. Punishing no one but herself.

“Oh well,” Astrid sighs, gleeful, and pushes the gag back between Maven’s lips. “Maybe next time, hm?”


End file.
